She didn't love him and he didn't love her; she was like an addiction, and what they were doing had a darkness to it, a weight.

In some deep place in her heart, Caroline had kept alive the silly romantic notion that somehow David Henry had once known her as no one else ever could. But it was not true. He had never even glimpsed her.

Then she had been a fiancee, a young wife, and a mother, and she had discovered that these words were far too small ever to contain the experience.

Away from the bright motion of the party, she carried her sadness like a dark stone clenched in her palm.

So something had begun, and now she could not stop it. Twin threads ran through her: fear and excitement. She could leave this place today. She could start a new life somewhere else.

After Memory Keepers Daughter, it took me a few months to shut out the world. I really had to turn off the Internet and sort of cloister myself away from the world again and sink into that psychic space to write again.

A moment was not a single moment at all, but rather an infinite number of different moments, depending on who was seeing things and how.